"No, I haven't. I only just woke up, Nora. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. I've been on it all night."'
She glanced at the vodka bottle, said succinctly, "Not surprising. But a good sleep was what you needed."
"I'll be down soon."
"Don't rush. Coffee takes a few minutes," she said as she hurried out.
I went into the bathroom and bent over the tub to flip the plug and saw, to my amazement, that the bath was empty.
But it couldn't be. I'd filled it last night. Filled it to the brim. I had been going to kill myself last night by slitting my wrists with my art knife.
The knife was not there.
This is ridiculous, I thought, looking around for it. I had put the knife on the edge of the tub near the taps. It was gone.
I spent a good twenty minutes searching for my art knife, but without success. It had vanished.
The whole business of the empty tub, the missing knife, and the kitchen door both puzzled and disturbed me. Demented with grief I might be, but I knew I wasn't crazy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"I'll be in my studio if you want me," I said to Nora a little later that morning.
"Oh, that's good to hear," she said, and there was a pleased note in her voice.
"I'm going to clean out some of my stuff, not paint," I said, looking at her as I pulled on my barbour.
Her face fell, but she made no comment, simply went back to preparing the vegetables for yet another one of her interminable soups. She was determined to feed me, and about the only thing she could get me to eat was soup or porridge. I was never hungry these days.
The icy wind stung my face as I walked quickly down the path which led past the terrace and the swimming pool. The studio door was locked, and as I fumbled with the key I shivered. Nora had been correct again. It was freezing cold today, below zero.
Warm air greeted me as I stepped inside my studio.
Last year I had installed gas heating, and I kept it at fifty degrees in the winter months. I went over to the thermostat and pushed the switch up to sixty-five.
Glancing around the studio, I saw that Nora had made an effort to tidy it since I had last been in here in November. But even so, there was a lot of mess and clutter. Brushes were lying around, and there were palettes with dried paint on them, a stack of new canvases piled haphazardly on a table, and several of my oils propped up against the side of the old sofa.
Taking off my barbour, hanging it on the coat stand, ignored the mess I had supposedly come to clean. Instead I looked for another art knife with a razor blade. I was certain there was a new one in a drawer of the chest I used for storing supplies. But I was wrong. All I could find were new sable brushes, crayons for drawing pastels, small pots of oil paints, a new paintbox of water-colors, and a lot of colored pencils.
I stood staring at the chest, biting my lip. Apparently the only art knife I had was the one which had gone missing.
How was I going to cut my wrists if I didn't have a blade?
I could gas myself instead. My eyes focused on the gas fire set in the wall.
The intercom on the phone buzzed, and I picked up the receiver, "Yes, Nora?"
"Were you expecting your mother, Mal?"
"No."
"Well, she's here. At least her car's coming up the front drive."
"Okay. I'll be right there."
"Good thing I'm making this soup for lunch," she said, then hung up.
After lowering the heat in the studio, I went out, locked the door, and ran back up the path to the house. It was not like my mother to come without calling me first; also, I was surprised she had ventured up to Connecticut in this bitterly cold and snowy weather.
She was coming in the front door as I strode into the long gallery.
"Mom, this is a surprise," I said, embracing her. "What's brought you up here on a day like this?"
"I wanted to see you, Mallory. I thought you might try to put me off if I phoned first. So I just came."
"You know you're always welcome, Mom."
She gave me an odd look but didn't say anything, and I took her heavy wool duffel coat and carried it out to the coatroom in the back of the house near my office.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" I asked when I returned.
"Tea would be nice," she answered, following me into the kitchen. I went to put the kettle on.
Nora said, "Hello, Mrs. Nelson. Roads bad, are they?"
My mother shook her head. "No, they've been well plowed. And good morning, Nora, how are you?"
"Not bad. And you?"
"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances," my mother responded. She half smiled at Nora, then looked at the stove and sniffed. "Your soup smells delicious."
"It's lunch," Nora said. "And I can make you a sandwich. Or an omelette, if you like."
"Anything will do, thanks, Nora. I'll have whatever Mal's having."
Nora went over to one of the cupboards and took out a cup and saucer for my mother's tea. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, "What about you, Mal? Do you want a cup too?"
"Yes, it'll warm me up," I said, and turning to my mother, I asked, "How's David?"
"He's well. Very busy right now."
"Has he heard anything? From DeMarco?"
"No. Have you?"
"No."
We stared at each other. I saw the tears rising in my mother's eyes. She blinked, pushed them back, and took a deep breath. "Are you feeling a bit better, darling?"
"Yes, I'm doing fine," I lied.
I walked over to the kitchen stove, turned off the kettle, and made the pot of tea. I began to put everything on a wooden tray, and looking up, I said to my mother, "Let's go into the sunroom. It's really very pleasant in there today."
"Wherever you wish, Mal."
We sat opposite each other on either side of the big glass coffee table, sipping our tea.
When she had finished her cup, my mother put it down on the table, looked across at me, and said, "Tell me the truth, Mal, are you really all right?"
"Of course. Mom!"
"I do worry about you, and about your being alone out here all the t-"
"I'm not alone. Nora's here, and Eric's in and out almost every day, and there's Anna down in the barn.".
"They're not with you at night."
"True, but I'm okay, honestly. Try not to worry so much, Mother."
"I can't help it. I love you, Mallory."
"I know, Mom."
"And then there are the weekends." She stopped, studied me for a moment, then asked, "Don't you want David and me to come out anymore?"
"Yes. Whenever you like. Why do you say that? And in such a peculiar tone?"
"I've felt that you've been pushing us away recently."
"Not true. I told you before, you're welcome anytime, and so is David."
"It disturbs me that you're alone so much," she said again.
"I'm not. And Sarah's always here. She was here this weekend."
"I know. She called me last night when she got back to the city. She wanted to tell me about her cousin Vera, about Vera looking at your apartment. So you are going to sell it, then?"
"Why not? I don't want to live there."
"Yes," she said quietly. "I understand."
"Vera's coming to New York in a couple of weeks, so Sarah said. Do you mind showing her the apartment? That is, if Sarah's working or away on business."
"I'll be happy to do it, darling."
"I guess Sarah told you she was going to Paris today?"
My mother nodded. "You and Sarah are very lucky, you know."
I stared at her. I was lucky?
"To have each other, I mean," she said swiftly, no doubt noticing the startled expression on my face. "To be so close-*
"Yes, we are," I agreed, cutting her off.
"To be best friends," she continued. "To be lifelong friends, to have such unconditional love for each other. You're both so fiercely loyal, and in many ways you're very dependent on each other."